The skyline of the port city of Cartagena, Colombia, stands overcast in the background, shrouded in cloud that melts to the Pacific. The sow shakes its jowls. Instead of entering its pen made of tamarisk boughs, it turns to face the girl. She swats it on the nose with a metal bar. The sow squeals, a glottal shriek. A second, larger sow approaches, gnashing its yellow fangs with loud clicks as it snuffles over the surface of the trash. It raises its head to look at the girl, who urinates where she stands. She doubles over and screams. The pee washes stripes in the dark grime on her legs. A middle-aged American in a white shirt and khaki pants, carrying binoculars on a strap around his neck, rounds a pile of empty detergent bottles. He takes a heavy branch from the fence. He drives both sows into the pen while the girl lopes away. He calls after her, “¡Momento, momento! Quédate, maja. ¿Cómo te llamas?” He walks toward her. “Amalia,” the girl says. “Ven conmigo. Te doy de comer,”
